


Mapped Fault Lines of Twine

by fatiguedfern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, Red String of Fate, Sort Of, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: Ouma weaves through tangles of webbed ties and earthly teathers, all the while as the cuff of twine threaded across his own wrist unravels. Stitch by stitch.





	Mapped Fault Lines of Twine

His foot catches in a low-hanging tangle of thread, before passing through the knotted bramble altogether. Ouma swallows down the swelling pit of trepidation clumping in his hollowed stomach. The string may strain and fray and tangle, yet it never splinters, no matter how hard he might tread. He steps lightly, feet barely skimming the well-mapped earth, all the same.

He shuffles on through the crowded streets, passing lengths of thread threatening to catch on the slumped contours of his shoulders. They never do. 

Ouma traces the neatly stitched thread cuffing just below his sleeve as he slips past masses stacked tall in walls of shifting flesh. The strand that trails from his wrist limply crawls into horizons he’d rather not attempt to make out through the embittered lens of his vision. 

The crowd parts into rows just slight enough for him to slip through the cracks at the coasting bus stop. He drifts away, unseen. 

.

The library’s half-lit by sinking sunlight when he finally fumbles his way through the frost-misted doorway. 

He checks the near illegible digits plastered against the glass. He struggles to make out the curled print etched into the murky glass screen. _43 minutes remaining_ he counts down in a voice that’s reminiscent of those that boom through the static of his TV-screen - playing a overblown game show of some sort - crackling on sleepless nights that he sets it on as white noise. With a sigh he brushes flakes of melting snow from the slicked surface of his hair, hoping that the unwanted recollections would be brushed off along with it.

The desk chair bites into his back, edges pronounced and cutting. Ghosting light cast from the static ridden screen in front of him colours his shakily marching fingers a blue deeper than that which the cold had bleached his flesh.

He types a solid line of symbols before leaning back, further sinking into the roughly moulded plastic. The script reads a winding map, twisting and stretching into syllables that sound out his own name. The cursor flickers precariously in the text box, shifting and jerking to the squared _submit_ key emblazoned at the very edge of the page’s magenta border.

A finger taps against a flimsy plastic shell, the movement playing steadier than the convulsive fidgeting his hands are usually set writhing. The resulting sound echoes a light _click_ against the musty paper lined walls. It’s the sound of his signature being scratched onto a contract nullifying his pitiful being; it’s the sound of his hand reaching into the gilded surface of a darkening uncertainty. 

Ouma grits his teeth, and hopes that against all odds he’s given the chance to be written into a script etched in the blood of all the eager martyrs scraped from the stage before him.

. 

His nails dig into the intangible twine threaded around his wrist. A thin line of lilac - a faded shade that sings of wear and memories scattered through childhood and adulthood alike - hovers just shy of pressing against his throat. He keeps his eyes fixated on the slight indent his feet dip into. An after-effect of treading too carelessly, steps too weighted, he’s sure.

A strand of yellow as vivid as sunlight cutting through suffocating clouds of pollution splays over the beaten leather laced to his foot. The canary yellow chirps and whistles with the warmth of latched arms between trusted friends. 

Ouma glances to the violent crimson piercing the cloth of his shirt and pulling taut into a prickled contour running through the train’s walls and leading to a destination unknown. His eyes flicker to the second strand - a dark navy, near black - that loops around his forefinger, and then back to the circlet of a pale peach stitched into his wrist - almost entirely unnoticeable if not for him knowing where to search for the almost imaginary pull.

Ouma slumps further down on the bench, the constant rattling and shaking as the train croakily sails over the tracks humming incessantly in his ears. He closes his eyes, and hopes that the dotted black of his eyelids isn’t marred by the lingering memories of tangled lifelines.

.

The night’s uncharacteristically still. 

A child’s cries pierce the feeble plaster of his apartment’s papyrus walls. The sound cuts through the silence. It’s hardly the worst howls that’ve been known to echo throughout the apartment block. 

Despite the wailing, the air churns relatively undisturbed compared to its usual thickly lain static. Ouma crosses into the small kitchenette, flipping the switch of the half-filled kettle into a creaking rumble. 

He taps a gaunt finger against the scratched up surface of the emptied fridge, the wavering digit contrasting a paler shade of off white than the yellowing plastic itself. The door pulls open with a clipped click. 

Ouma smells the rot before he sees it. The discarded peach droops into the shelf itself, melting onto its perch. Puckered skin flattens and leaks putrid ichor, the stench echoing from the pooling paste burns at the back of his throat. 

The remaining shelves are coated in a sheen of chilled perspiration. Absently tracing a finger through unevenly spread mist, he filters through a clutter of half-emptied condiment jars. Nothing to be found buried beneath the mold and rot.

He’s stomach rumbles a familiar growl. He can’t bring himself to scrape together the energy to care. The fridge door clicks shut again, locking away the putrid stench with it. It lingers still, scent burnt into a welt of remembrance crusted in his throat. 

The kettle’s thundering ramble fades to a breathy whistle. Ouma rummages through dust-lined cupboards until his fingers skim searchingly over flimsy cardboard, then pluck at a chipped mug’s handle.

The teabag seeps a mild green into the water. The surface ripples as he slips a spoon brimming with crusted sugar into the mug. Staring into his distorted reflection projected across the murky swirl of liquid between sips, Ouma drowns his fear with mouthfuls of glorified dishwater until the cup empties and all that’s left is a grainy syrup that trickles onto his tongue. His eyes scrunch at the saccharine taste. 

Tapping out an uneven rhythm against his phone’s ruptured screen, he refreshes his inbox once more. The page slowly jitters into an image replicating that of its past reflection. He refreshes the page again, and again, and again, all of the spam mail festering in his rarely checked inbox jerking back into place moments later as the shaky connection stolen from a cafe across the street struggles to process any incoming mail.

His back slumps into the tattered foam of his beat up sleeper coach, eyes glazing with an uneasy familiarity as he counts the cracks webbing over the roof, then the cracks in dim light that thread through and across the apartment’s four walls, careful not to let his gaze slip to his own wrist. 

Coloured thread may dictate the workings of a world unseen, but that didn’t mean that it would dictate every single step he takes. Since the beginning of man’s relationship with twine, it had yielded to their will, and for once Ouma didn’t mind trailing in the footsteps of tradition. 

He crosses his index finger over the next, and waits. Another sleepless night spent mulling over something his very fibre strained against is hardly a new occurrence at this point.

.

The email announcing his lucky selection to be interviewed still comes as a surprise, despite the sleep lost and the likelihood calculated. 

He hates it before he’s even fully opened the attachment. He hates the crest plastered so proudly across the documentation, hates the cartoonish bear who he can never associate with anything other than death. More than anything he hates how the attachment almost surely serves as a certificate congratulating him on making halfway to fully signing his life away. 

_Despicable,_ his thoughts murmur. His eyes catch on his name neatly printed where the email’s meant recipient’s name would presumably be etched. _And that’s your name, so what does that make you?_ He sighs, a strained huff of air that whistles with exasperation. “Despicable,” he whispers. And there’s no doubt to be picked from his tone, because he’d known from the moment he’d made the choice to plunge from one seemingly set future to another.

No, that’s not really true, he supposes. There are cases where one cursed with the very same sight as he have trailed behind a beacon of string, only for it to shift colours and loop back towards a home that they had abandoned. People change, fates twist, and bonds rip and tear with enough pressure placed. These ties - these shackles - are only a guideline, a scarce few possibilities out of hundreds of thousands. The thread stitched to his wrist is nothing more than a illusionary weight he continues to burden himself with. 

His nails scrape against his pulse, digging at the illusive string threaded across. His skin itches, a sensation almost reminiscent of his legs brushing up against grass for a moment that stretches out for far too long. His rapid picking slows as he feels wetness smear across his thumb. The tips of his fingers are dyed in crimson semi-crescents, yet the palid thread remains coloured so. 

And there it is; his painful reminder that perhaps some fates may change, yet despite it all his seems to remain set in its preconceived spiral. 

_Coward,_ his thoughts hiss. He says nothing to deny the spat words implication. “I’d rather face a certain death than a shackled future. Perhaps I never will put an end to the disgusting game I may have the luck to be thrown into, but if nothing else it’ll put an end to me, right?” The diluted reflection projected onto his phone’s screen offers no answer before shattering altogether as Ouma drops the device down beside him. 

Perhaps he’d end the game, and more likely it’d end him. He’s more than at peace with either outcome. At the very least he’d escape this world he’d been unfortunate enough to be placed in. 

At the very least his world might be dictated by things beyond ever-spreading thread. And, perhaps he himself wouldn’t remain a blurred character smudged entirely into the background.

. 

The train screeches to a dead stop at the station closest to the _Team DanganRonpa_ office building where the auditions are held. Ouma waits until the last tidal wave of bodies press out the exit until he stumbles from the car. 

The building looms ahead, menacing and undaunted by the flocking crowd at its steps. Ouma squares his jaw as best he can and prepares to slip through the masses.

His nose stings with the stench of sweat and cloying desperation. Ouma pushes, and the crowd slams him back, but he’s not to be deterred, weaving through layers upon layers of limbs. 

The sliding entrance door is just barely out of arm’s reach when the crowd begins to part, chased off by imposing voices he didn’t dare source. A flash of his phone displaying his invitation and he’s ushered through to a waiting room with a stiff wave. 

The room thrums with a excitement barely dulled by nerves. Ouma winces. _You’ll die, you’ll all die for nothing, please, please…_ something pleads silently in the back of his mind. _You’ll die too,_ a coarser whisper chokes in his ear. _And that wouldn’t bother you. You have nothing else to live for._

His fists ball into the loose material of his oversized button down, and he flicks his eyes closed. He isn’t entirely prepared to watch a roomful of people’s faces light up with excitement and anticipation as they’re called to be prodded at for inspection - the finest cattle picked and sent to the slaughterhouse.

Someone slips into a seat next to him, and it takes his hands clenching his shirt hard enough for his knuckles to whiten to not jerk his head up reflexively. The chair next to him creaks as its occupant settles. He hears humming; an off-tune little hymn thrumming from his newly seated neighbor.

His name’s called - clearly and sharply lilted; “Ouma Kokichi.” He winces. 

His chair scrapes against the floor shakily as he’s led into a hall of sorts. His shoes scuff against the wooden panelling of the floor. An arm stretches just passed his ear, gesturing towards the camera hung from the wall. 

The same hand lands on his shoulder, guiding him into a uncomfortably proper position. Heavy steps thud behind him as he’s left almost entirely alone. Ouma risks the slightest of glances in the direction of the girl - not worn enough to be a woman, yet something nags at him that she shouldn’t be labelled a youth either- sat atop a folding chair resting against a nearby wall. 

The girl’s eyes flit between him and the notebook spread across her lap with the sharp clacking rhythm of her thumb grazing the plunger if her pen. He feels like a mannequin being surveyed for too obvious manufacturing faults.

She clears her throat by way of giving him a starting cue. His throat tightens, and for a fraction of a moment it’s as if he’s choking on words yet to be spoken.

“Number 158. Ouma Kokichi.” By habit, he shifts his weight uneasily between his feet. “I-I don’t really mind what role I play… I don’t mind dying… I-it’d probably be preferable to anyone dying in my place, even if I wouldn’t want to m-murder anyone if possible. I’m nothing special, and I’d be easily molded into whatever pawn I need to be… I just guess that I’d like not to be boring.” His gaze plunges to his feet once again, and he can’t help but notice the violent shade of crimson trailing from the girl’s wrist - a crimson almost identical to the one caging around his own torso.

The girl appears to be picking out any worth his stuttered words may hold. Ouma hesitantly steps out of the camera’s view, and with the wave of her hand a politely murmured _thank you_ , he’s dismissed. 

Another girl’s lead into the room as he exits. Her voice buzzes with a tone near identical to the humming from before. Once again, his eyes catch on a length of string looping across the auditioners shoulder. He shakes off the snort of derision he almost lets escape at the irony of it all, and makes sure to slide the door shut all the way. 

. 

The waiting room’s abuzz with excited chirping yet again when he re-enters. The mass of people gathered had considerably gone down in number since, but somehow those still left waiting make up for their lack of numbers by increasing the volume of their droning. 

In such a confined space and plagued with heightened anticipation, the world appears even more erratic than usual. 

Ouma keeps his head bowed while approaching the doorway leading to the entrance hall. A hand wrapping around his arms freezes him in his steps. “Oi! What’s it like in there? Any pointers?” 

There’s something off-putting about the voice that speaks to - no, demands from - him. It’s gravely and low, its owner likely fuelled on little sleep and caffeinated drinks, but beyond that, it’s the voice of a school bully. Obnoxiously entitled.

“S-sorry. I’m not the best person to ask,” Ouma says. He bows his head lower. “Sorry.”

“Eh?” The hand clasped around his arm drops. “Well, I guess it makes sense that someone like you’d be fuckin’ clueles. At least you don’t have to worry about me murdering you then, pipsqueak.” 

“Y-yeah… A-anyway good luck.” Ouma risks a glance in the rough voice’s direction. He regrets it immediately.

The boy’s appearance is suited to his voice, hair gelled up and a tuft of facial hair sticking out from his chin, and almost most noticeably a glint of violence reflected in his eyes. He’s the spitting image of a common schoolyard delinquent. But what catches Ouma’s attention is what wraps around his thigh loosely. A line of familiar crimson cuts through the tangled mass of ties, and knots around his own rib cage. 

A thinner, almost unseeable strand of peach threads across the boy’s calf, and sure as the blood pounding in his head, links to Ouma’s own wrist.

Ouma scurries away as quickly as his shaking legs can carry him.

. 

Dumb luck ends with Ouma seated on the crowded train, despite being one of the last to enter. 

He needs it, really. His breathing is laboured, and the tie strung over his chest feels as if it's threatening to shatter his ribs and puncture his lungs. 

Ouma fidgets with the badge of participation he’d been passed at the reception desk before leaving the _Team DanganRonpa_ building in hopes of calming his nerves. 

“You know, those can go for a good price,” a boy in a neighboring seat likely leers at the badge clutched in Ouma’s hands with his one visible eye. “They’re seen as a collectors item. And, I’d know, because I’ve spent enough collecting them! But not this year,” he tugs at the badge already pinned proudly to his blazer’s lapel. “There’s nothing like earning it first hand.”

“I’m sure,” Ouma says, his nerves doing little to quell his discomfort. “...S-so it’s safe to assume that you’re a big fan of _DanganRonpa_?”

“That’s right! And now that I’ve actually come this far, I’m sure that I’ll be selected.” The boy’s grin is obscured by the shadows cast by his hat. 

“I… I’m sure you will be.” There’s a sense of finality to Ouma’s words that surprises himself. 

“By the way, though,” the boy shifts in closer, “if you’re selected too… Well, that Saihara Shuuichi won’t go easy on you. It’s a dog eats dog world, after all,” Saihara, Ouma assumes, leans back into his seat with a grin screaming of excitement. “It’s a dog eats dog world, and I expect to be ripped apart in the most spectacular way.” 

Ouma doesn’t respond. He isn’t entirely sure how to. 

The rest of the train ride is spent in silence until Saihara leaves a prefecture before his own, and leaves him with a forced hand shake. 

“See you,” Ouma waves. 

It isn’t until the train starts rolling on the tracks again that Ouma allows himself to study his palm. He can almost feel a sheen of sweat imprinted onto his hand from Saihara’s, but more than that the memory of navy thread linking his index finger to Saihara’s pinky remains imprinted in his mind's eye.

.

Ouma lies facing the roof on his couch. He counts the cracks. A saccharine taste lingers in his throat.

“A Killing Game… possibly wasn’t the best way of cutting these ties, huh?” 

The only thing that answers is the flickering of a lamp’s bulb off to the side.

“But it’s the most productive… Maybe… Maybe I can change something.” 

The bulb crackles. Ouma slips his phone out of his pocket.

He refreshes his inbox. 

And again. 

And again.

And again, and again, and again, until evening bleeds to dawn and sleep finally overtakes him.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, alright so it might’ve been a little unclear, but... basically this is centred around the concept of a reimagined red string of fate AU. Clearly soulmates aren’t as definite here and in later chapters I hope to further explain the concept I’ve come up with here. 
> 
> Another thing is that though the first chapter and likely the second chapter should be set before any of the actual killing game events, the rest will eventually carry on into it, so this is not an exclusively pre-canon fic. 
> 
> Sorry for the rather lengthy author’s note, and thank you for reading! I hope to get the next chapter out soon!


End file.
